


pathways

by orphan_account



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Arson, M/M, POV Second Person, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6865714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you first see him again it’s like you’re back to being 23, except- it’s not like that at all.</p><p>Michael and Ray meet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pathways

**Author's Note:**

> the mature rating for this is probably a bit extreme, but i like to be careful. this is just a short thing i worked on ages ago. i probably won't pick it up again but i figured why not post it, just in case i do decide to add more to this world.
> 
> (spoilers, in reference to the archive warnings: i'm not entirely sure what qualifies as graphic. michael gets shot, loses a tooth. a guy digs a finger into his gum where the tooth used to be. an NPC dies. standard gta content applies.)
> 
> title taken from a rainer maria rilke poem of the same name:
> 
> “Understand, I’ll slip quietly  
> away from the noisy crowd  
> when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks.
> 
> I’ll pursue solitary pathways  
> through the pale twilit meadows,  
> with only this one dream:
> 
> You come too.”

When you first see him again it’s like you’re back to being 23, except- it’s not like that at all.

Some asshole’s got you pinned, knees on your chest, and he’s gripping your wrists in one of his hands. He’s using the other one to beat you into submission, mouth, ribs, stomach. One of your teeth is on the pavement by your pistol, both covered in blood.

They caught your pelvis earlier, a gunshot at close range, so you can’t get your feet under you to flip him without seriously fearing paralyzation and you’ll take a fucked up face over that any day. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop anytime soon though, and it’s not like you’d be able to do much even if you were able to get a hand free, so really- you’re sort of just praying.

He’s got his hand in your mouth, the fronts of his fingers pressing down on your tongue while his thumb digs into the hole in your gum, when suddenly he freezes. You feel it before you see it, too focused on the hand inside your mouth, but then he’s falling, collapsing on his side with a knife sticking out of his back.

You’re too stunned to say anything, to look anywhere but the blood staining the guy’s shirt. It spreads into a small puddle on the ground beneath him. Then you notice the shadow.

“What, no thank you?” It says. He says, Ray says.

You stare in shock for a moment. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to see that guy trying to fist your mouth, dude, I didn’t know you were into th-.”

“No, I mean how long have you fucking been in Los Santos?” You’re shaking, not sure if it’s shock or blood loss or both or you’re just dying.

Ray tenses a little, a nearly unnoticeable change, and then a loose grin twists his face. “Just a little while,” he says.

“Yeah, sure,” you say, because you know he’s full of shit and covering something, “So are you gonna just stand there or are you gonna help me get out of here?”

Ray hitches his rifle on his shoulder a bit higher, and then takes a step forward, extends a hand. You take it, and Ray -carefully- lifts you up. He pulls you in, and your hips tinges, twists, but it’s worth it for how he presses his face into your shoulder and breathes.

“Shit,” he says.

You snort, and it hurts. “Shit’s fucking right, you see my fucking pelvis?”

Ray pulls back, leaves his hands on your biceps to keep you balanced while he checks the wound. “What happened anyways? Where’s-?”

“I was the only ground support over here. Didn’t have my eyes,” you say, wryly. Ray winces.

“Well, I’m here now,” he says, like that makes up for it. (You don’t look at the man on the ground, don’t pay attention to the blood staining your sneaker, ignore the taste of salt and metal in your mouth. He wasn’t there.)

“Yeah, you are,” you say. Ray straightens up, casting a glance behind him.

“So where do I take you?” He asks.

You’re torn with indecision - tell him, or take him somewhere else. When you don’t answer quickly, he turns to you; “You gonna tell me? Or you just gonna bleed out?”

“I- yeah, no, but how are we going to get there?”

Ray jingles a keyring. “I got it.”

  

He leaves as soon as he’s made sure you’re patched up, remnants of the bullet removed and the entry and exit holes closed. Three days later the old safehouse you took him to burns to the ground.

He leaves a calling card: a note.

You tear it to pieces, then burn each piece individually. The others watch you, their eyes shifting between each other uneasily. They leave you food, clean your bandages. They watch some more.

It’s like being 23 again, except for how he left you and ashed the remains. This time you ash his.


End file.
